Satine: Story of a Courtesan
by elizabeth92
Summary: The story of Marie-Christine before she became the sparkling diamond of the Moulin Rouge.
1. Paris, 1873

Prologue

Paris. A city of lights, enchantment, beauty, and, of course, love. Le Tour Eiffel. Le Musée du Louvre. Château de Versailles. Sacré-Cœur. And, of course, the Moulin Rouge!

1873

The small tenement was wracked by the bitter cold winds that seemed to be in a constant uproar in the poorest district of Paris. Most of those unfortunate enough to spend their winters in the unheated flats were huddled together before whatever warmth they could provide. The night was frightfully cold, but not unremarkably so. Inside perhaps the dingiest building on the street, however, a young woman fought for her life.

"Mademoiselle, relax. Deep breaths. You mustn't fidget so!" The ruddy-faced midwife sponged the forehead of most recent patient as she encouraged her. Secretly, she wished the woman would hurry it up already. She had a family at home to care for and the night wasn't getting any younger. The woman's labor pains had been going on for hours. She was little more than a girl herself and this was clearly her first child: she had probably had imagined half her contractions. It was unlikely that anything was going to …

"MADAME!" the woman screamed, her fingernails digging into her palms. The midwife pulled her thoughts together: perhaps the baby was coming tonight after all. "I see the head, Mademoiselle! Breathe … and push. _Un_ … _deux … trois … quatre …_Ah, Mademoiselle! _Vous avez une belle petite fille_You have a beautiful baby girl!"

Expertly, the midwife cut the cord and cleaned the screaming child. She already had a shock of red hair, just like her mother. She offered the little girl to her mother, who took her quickly and smiled dazedly at the infant. "_Ma fille_ … how very perfect," she whispered hoarsely. "Perhaps the … the only good thing I have accomplished …" She smiled and her voice choked off into a cough. "Give her … this …" She reached feebly for the necklace around her throat. "And please … tell her … tell her I love her."

"Hush, there, child, you can tell her yourself in a few moments…"

"No!" The woman's coughs grew more and more desperate. "My little girl! My little diamond … my very own…" Her eyes closed and, slowly, her gasps slowed to haggard breathing and then … the midwife placed her head on the woman's chest for a pulse … there was nothing. "Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle?" the midwife called, desperately trying to raise the woman.

But there was no hope.

The midwife crossed herself and looked around the tiny flat. The woman had been alone when she had come; she had been summoned by a neighbor who had heard the woman screaming. There was no sign of life in the entire apartment. The walls were bare except for an empty hook and one gas light hung from the ceiling on a piece of wire. There was a rickety table next to the bed; the midwife's bag was sitting on the only chair. There was no food, except for the crust of bread that had been meant for the midwife's own supper. She peeked under the bed – ah! There was something! She pulled out a valise, expensive by the look of it. Inside was a cloak, a small box and some books … no money. _How would she have paid me? _the midwife wondered. She thumbed through the books: a Bible, a prayer book, even a cheap novel. The prayer book looked brand new, its ribbon marker not even frayed, but the novel had clearly been read many times. One page was folded down; the midwife flipped to it. One word had been circled: SATINE.

"Satine …" she mused, realizing for the first time that she did not even know the name of the young woman. How would she track down family to care for the little child?

_Merde, the child._ She looked around and breathed a sigh of relief. The girl had drifted to sleep almost immediately in her mother's arms, not even realizing that the woman who gave her life had lost her own in doing so. Quietly, she turned back to the valise, to the box at the bottom of the bag. There was a windmill engraved on the wood and, underneath: _The Moulin Rouge_. She nodded, understanding. The woman, perhaps she had been a dancer … if that was the word for them. The midwife had heard nothing good of the women who worked in the famed cabaret; she had cared for a number of them herself. It was no shock that the young woman had found herself pregnant and with no one at the _Rouge _to turn to… She shuddered at the tragedy of it all, and then, remembering, opened the box. There was a Rosary inside and a small picture, of a young woman – the same one in that very room – and a man. They were holding hands and laughing into the camera as if daring the world to laugh with them. The girl's gown was fine and not the type of fine that comes from dancing the cancan all night … the type of fine that only clean, upper class money can buy.

A lusty cry from the bed woke the midwife from her reveries. She returned to the infant, who stopped crying as soon as she was picked up. Her tiny eyes hadn't even opened yet. The midwife's heart went out to the baby and she found herself wondering if she could take her home and … _No. Absolutely not. I've enough mouths to feed. I'll bring the child to the church and let the nuns deal with her._

She wrapped the baby in the cloak she had found in the valise. She placed the Rosary around the woman's hands and left her with her prayer book and Bible. When she was found, they would know to give her a proper burial. She remembered the woman's orders and removed the delicate necklace, placing it in the box with the photograph. Almost as an afterthought, she ripped out the page with SATINE and tucked it into the valise. Then gently, she placed the baby in the bag and, rocking it slowly to keep her asleep, made her way to the local church.

The church was dark and empty this late at night and the midwife knocked four times at the small gate to the cloisters. Perhaps the nuns were at their prayers, perhaps the wind masked the knock, but no one came. Eventually, she made her way to the heavy wooden doors that opened into the church. The midwife walked quietly to the candlelit tabernacle and laid the valise at the feet of the statue of Mary. The saint seemed to smile down on the girl. She peeked inside the basket. The infant was fast asleep. "Dieu vous bénisse," she whispered. "God be with you."

The nuns who awoke for morning prayers found the child. They brought her to the Mother Superior who, after having heard how the babe was found at the feet of the Virgin Mary, declared, to much joy, "If Mary herself has sent us this child, then we must be meant to raise her. Of course, the child must have a name."

A young woman, a novice by her habit, raised her hand timidly. "Mother," she said, procuring the paper from her habit and handing it to the Mother Superior, "this paper was with her. I think her name is Satine."

"Satine?" The Abbess furrowed her brow as she examined the paper. "It is not the name of a respectable girl." She stroked the baby's red hair. "Never mind that. We will call her Marie-Christine, after the holy Mother of God who has so clearly brought her here for us. And Clemence…?"

"Oui, Mother?" asked the same novice.

"You will care for the child in place of your other duties. Take her now to your quarters; I will have Sister Joan bring a cradle from the attic. It is old, but the wood will hold up for our purposes. The sisters and I will spend the day in prayer for the infant and her mother, whoever she is."

"Oui, Mother. As you wish." The nuns filed out of the room. Mother Superior handed the newly-christened Marie-Christine to her caretaker and blessed the baby. As soon as she was placed in Clemence's hands, the baby immediately began to sob. "Shhh, shhh!" Clemence whispered frantically, overwhelmed by the loud cries. She offered the child her finger to suck. The little girl ignored it, her screams getting louder and louder. Mother Superior turned and stared at Clemence, who smiled weakly.

It was going to be a long day.


	2. 1881

1881

"_L'Éternel est mon berger: je ne manquerai de rien. Il me fait reposer dans de verts pâturages, il me mène à des eaux paisibles. Il restaure mon âme; il me conduit dans des sentiers de justice, à cause de son nom. Même quand je marcherais par la vallée de l'ombre de la mort, je ne craindrai aucun mal; car tu es avec moi: ta houlette et ton bâton, ce sont eux qui me consolent._" The little girl in the chair yawned; she preferred the animated stories of Daniel and Jacob to the stuffy Psalms. Didn't everyone?

She snuck a glimpse at the shadow of the still nun. Was she sleeping? The office was dark and stuffy enough to fall asleep at a moment's notice and the Mother Superior was hardly a young woman. She was about to close the huge Bible and go to Sister Clemence early when a very-awake voice asked, "Why did you stop reading, Marie-Christine? Please, continue."

She groaned inwardly. "_Oui, _Mother." These lessons had hardly been her idea; the Mother Superior believed that, in order to become an accomplished woman, Christine must receive constant tutelage. She received lessons from the nuns in morality, speaking, sitting, eating, walking, singing, cooking … Even when she brushed her teeth at night, Sister Clemence stood by to make sure that she was tidy and responsible. It was all a little much for a girl her age. "_Tu dresses devant moi une table, en la présence de mes ennemis; tu as oint ma tête d'huile, ma coupe est comble. Oui, la bonté et la gratuité me suivront tous les jours de ma vie, et mon habitation sera dans la maison de l'Éternel pour de longs jours. __Amen._" Finally, she'd finished that godforsaken chapter. "Um … any more, Mother Abbess?"

"No, Marie-Christine, that will be enough for today. I shall have Sister Clemence bring you back to your room." The elderly woman pulled on a bell cord next to her chair. The little girl gently closed the Bible and replaced it on the shelf. "Your reading is coming along quiet nicely, my child."

"_Merci_, Mother. Sister Clemence says that I'll be starting on Latin soon." The Mother Abbess nodded her approval and even allowed for a rare smile to cross her face. Christine, as everyone but the Mother Abbess called her, was precocious for a child of eight, unbelievably so. The nuns were all astounded with her academic progress, especially since she was such a remarkably young eight-year-old. She couldn't fairly be declared short or tall, but no matter how much Sister Antoine made her eat, she remained rail-thin. Her skin was pale as fresh milk without even a spattering of freckles to mar it and the black frocks she wore only heightened the contrast. But her most striking feature was the bright red hair that curled down to her shoulders. It was gorgeous, but the Mother Abbess found it inappropriate for a young Catholic girl and demanded that Christine wear a scarf in the abbey and a hat on the street.

There was a knock on the door. "Mother Abbess?" Sister Clemence, a woman half the age of most of her fellow nuns, stepped nervously into the room. She had been a nun for the past six years and had spent the last eight caring for her young charge, but fetching Christine from her daily lessons with the Abbess still intimidated her. Christine was always at ease with the elderly nun, but Sister Clemence had always found the office a little scary. "I've come to take Christine."

"Ah, there you are, Sister Clemence. Marie-Christine gave me the pleasure of informing me that you will begin to teach her Latin soon."

The nun bowed her head. "Yes, Mother. Christine is very bright; she can already understand our prayers in Latin and knows much of the Mass. It is a pleasure to teach her."

"Sister Clemence compliments you, Marie-Christine, and I can see that it is not without merit. You will make a fine nun someday." The little girl lowered her eyes, quickly masking whatever emotion she felt to those words. The Mother Superior didn't seem to notice, but Sister Clemence did. She grasped Christine's hand comfortingly. "Now run along with Sister Clemence."

"Thank you, Mother."

Sister Clemence led the little girl out of the room quickly. Christine spoke cheerfully, but did not mention the look Sister Clemence had noticed in the girl's eyes when the Abbess spoke. It was not until late that night, when she was helping Christine into her nightgown that anything was said. "Sister Clemence?" Christine suddenly asked. "When do you know if you want to be a nun?"

The nun shrugged as she began plaiting Christine's hair. "It's different for everyone, I suppose. Why do you ask?"

"It's about what Mother Superior said today. She said I would make a good nun. All the other Sisters say it, too. Sister Antoine says I could maybe be a lady's maid or companion, but even she says I'd make a better nun. But I don't want to be a nun or a lady's maid or any of that, Sister!"

Sister Clemence laughed at her sincerity. "Well, what do you want to be?"

"I want to be an actress!" the young girl exclaimed.

"An … an actress?" she repeated. Christine nodded eagerly and Sister Clemence suddenly felt lightheaded. "Christine, you mustn't say such things."

"But what's wrong with being an actress?"

"Actresses aren't … well, respectable women don't … you see, good girls become …" Sister Clemence struggled for the right words and Christine giggled. "Christine, listen to me. Actresses aren't the type of women you want to be seen with. Girls from good breeding don't become actresses, especially not good Catholic girls. You have to promise me that you won't every talk about that ever again. If the Mother Superior heard you say that, you'd be doing dishes with Sister Antoine for a year and spend the rest of the time praying."

"But … Sister, I don't understand." She knew she had somehow overstepped the line, but why? Men acted out scenes from the Bible in the chapel all the time and she knew that there were women actresses in the city. She had never seen them of course: Sister Clemence kept her close to her side when they went out. But there had to be actresses somewhere in Paris.

"You're only a little girl, you shouldn't understand. Just promise me you won't say anything or think about it again."

"Yes, Sister, I promise."

"That's my good girl. Now off to bed with you." Christine clambered into her bed and pulled the coverlet up to her little chin. Sister Clemence smiled. "Goodnight Christine, and don't think so much about it. Just dream tonight." Christine nodded and closed her eyes.

Sister Clemence blew out the lamp and closed the door. As she walked down the hall, she thought to herself … An actress? God forbid, but she should have known. She thought of the box inside the valise, so many years ago … _The Moulin Rouge_. Could blood ties really be so strong? But no, she mustn't think about that. Christine was just a young girl and her aspirations would quickly be replaced by some other fantasy.

And yet, she couldn't help but wonder…


	3. 1886

_Thanks for reading and reviewing ... I love you guys! This chapter was originally much longer but ... I basically changed my plotline and ended up just sticking this in here._

1886

"Christine, get back here!" The people in the streets of Montmartre parted to let through the surprising sight of a … was that a nun? In the market? In Montmartre? It sure appeared to be, even if her usually serene expression looked a little frazzled at the moment. She was chasing after a girl a few meters ahead of her. "Christine! What are you doing? Get back here!"

"Oh, but Sister … look at this!" The thirteen-year-old girl was admiring a flowered silk scarf. Passersby smiled at her quaint, proper appearance, so unfamiliar in Montmartre. She wore thick black stockings that scratched her legs and, peeking out from underneath her stiff black skirt, were at least three white petticoats. Her sleeves were too short and her dress stretched tightly across her chest. Everything, down to her polished boots and the black scarf she wore over her red curls, was black. "Excuse me sir, how much is this scarf?" she asked.

The dark-skinned man at the stand had a long white beard and wore a turban. "You like?" he asked in a thick accent. "Best quality silk. All the way from India. Is very cheap, very nice. You like? You buy?"

"Oh, Sister, please?"

"Christine, no. You know we're here only for food." Sister Clemence approached the stand cautiously. The turbaned man reached out a hand, holding many different colored scarves. "Oh, those are quite gorgeous…" She sighed, remembering when she had been so excited by trivial matters like scarves. And gloves. And hats. And quite a bit more, now that she thought about it.

"Yes, and Mother Superior insists I wear scarves and all of mine are so hideous, Sister." She gestured to the clothes she was wearing. "They're black. Like everything else I wear."

"Nonsense, Christine, it's not all black." Was it?

"Fine, I have a white gown for Easter," Christine admitted, still admiring the scarves. "But Sister, when I see all the other girls, they all have beautiful hats with flowers and bows and long dresses … not these silly frocks. I'm thirteen, oughtn't I to have a nice suit of clothes? If you really do want be to become a lady's companion, I should at least look nice and ladylike."

Sister Clemence sighed. She'd known the day would come when Christine would begin to realize how unlike the other children she was. It was true, Christine's frocks were extremely childish and worn out, but they had all been fashioned by hand by the nuns of the abbey who used the cloth of old habits or clothes donated to the church. Sister Clemence herself had spent several long hours letting out seams to make the dresses last as long as possible. "Christine…"

"Scarf? You buy?" the old man interrupted.

"No, I'm afraid not. Perhaps another time."

"But Sister…"

"Christine, I can't just go off buying frivolous things like that. We have to go to the apothecary to get Sister Joan's medicines. And Sister Antoine has a whole list … potatoes, carrots, beef, cream… And I need new seeds for the garden. It's time to plant radishes and I used up the last of the seeds last year. We really haven't got money to spare on scarves. Perhaps another time."

"That's what you always say," Christine muttered as they walked away from the stall.

"What?"

"Nothing, Sister." _One day_, she thought, _I'll wear nothing but silks and velvet. And I'll never, ever wear black._


	4. 1887

1887

The abbey garden was Sister Clemence's pride and joy. She spent hours every spring, purchasing and planting seeds. Summer was spent watering and tending to her little sprouts. No matter how dry the summer, Sister Clemence's seeds always had enough to drink. When autumn came, she harvested her fruits and vegetables and proudly delivered them to Sister Antoine in the kitchen. Christine had always loved the garden and, from a young age, Sister Clemence had allowed her to tend it. This was quite an accomplishment, for Sister Clemence's garden was usually off-limits to everyone but the nun herself. Christine, however, had as green a thumb as any true gardener and was allowed, in her free time, to tend to the little seedlings.

This was what she was doing now.

It was mid-July and Paris was hot. After half an hour in the sunny garden, Christine had stripped her to chemise and petticoats. Her thick wool overdress lay at the feet of St. Francis of Assisi's statue. Her skin was sticky with sweat and her pale face was flushed. Her stubborn red curls had fought their way out from underneath her scarf and now hung around her face. All the nuns were in prayer; no one would see her. She sang to herself as she worked, an old hymn Sister Nadine had taught her.

"You have a very pretty voice."

Christine jumped at the unfamiliar voice. She looked up. There was a boy, sitting on the high abbey wall. He had bare feet and his trousers were patched and dirty. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, jumping to her feet in a panic. Her spade and shovel fell to the ground, unheeded.

"I was walking in the street and I heard you singing," he explained. "I thought it was coming from the church at first, but I peeked over the wall and saw you instead. You sounded like an angel."

Christine was flattered, whether she wanted to be or not. "Do you want to … uh … come down?" she asked awkwardly. The boy smiled and jumped nimbly down from the wall, landing in a catlike crouch. He straightened and walked over to her. She smiled hesitantly. "How do you do?"

"Much better, not sitting on that wall anymore." He laughed. Christine smiled again; she liked this boy's laugh. It wasn't the polite titter she often heard from the nuns, but loud and boisterous. In fact, everything about the boy seemed boisterous. He had sandy brown hair that stuck up at odd angles and his tanned face was covered in freckles. He stuck out his hand. "I'm Adrien," he announced. She was a little startled, having realized she'd been staring openly at him. Of course she'd seen boys before, but she'd never really talked to one, especially not a boy so close to her own age. "And what's your name?"

"Oh. Right. Marie-Christine."

"Well, Marie-Christine … do you work here?" he asked, eying the abbey. She shook her head. He frowned. "Don't tell me you live here!" She nodded. "But only nuns live at the abbey and you're not a nun … are you?"

She laughed. "No, of course not."

"Yeah, I figured you were a little too young. And you haven't really got the … you know. The nun dress? In fact…" He squinted at Christine. "You don't seem to be wearing any dress at all."

She looked down, confused. "What do you … _oh Mon Dieu._"

"No, don't worry. I don't mind." The boy grinned. Christine, her face slowly growing hotter and hotter, rushed over to where she'd tossed her dress before. She quickly pulled it on, groaning as the itchy wool scratched against her skin. She struggled with the buttons up and down the front of her dress.

"That's quite a dress there," Adrien remarked. "Maybe you are a nun." Christine made a face. "Oh, then why live in the abbey?"

"It's my home. I've lived here all my life, ever since I was a baby. The nuns found me, abandoned inside the church, and they took me in." It was Adrien's turn to make a face. Christine, who herself had complained about the abbey more than once, felt a twinge of resentment. "It's better than on the streets," she insisted.

"I might argue that point. I think the streets are a fine place, long as it's not too cold."

He turned her around and beginning to button up the back of her dress. His hands were calloused and rough, but they made quick work of the buttons. Christine shivered in spite of the day's heat; the feel of his fingers on her skin gave her goose bumps. "I'd do anything not to be on the streets. Not to know what your next meal is going to be, if you're even going to have a next meal … not to know where you're going to sleep, what you'll do if you get sick, if you get hurt. Not to have anything?"

Adrien laughed. "That's the excitement of life. Freedom, adventure, independence … You couldn't understand, you're too boring."

"Boring?"

"Yes." Adrien flashed her that bright smile of his. She was beginning really like it. "I might … just … fall … asleep … listening … to … you … talk." He flopped down on his back on the grass.

"I'm not that dull!" she exclaimed, sinking down to the grass next to him. "… Am I?"

He sat up and grinned. The worried look that had momentarily crossed Christine's blue eyes disappeared. "No, I rather like listening to you. You've got a very pretty voice, but I liked it better when you were singing."

"You really liked that?" Christine plucked a flower from the grass and twirled it in her fingers, letting the curtain of red hair hide her blushing face. The yellow flower was a weed, _pis-en-lit_. Sister Clemence hated them, but Sister Antoine, after discovering a patch growing rampant in the garden, had created such a soup that the nuns had insisted the weeds stay.

"Yes, you were beautiful." She turned to look at him. "Your voice, I mean. It was beautiful." She smiled up at him, and he coughed awkwardly. "Uh, that's a pretty flower."

She shrugged. "Just a weed."

"Ah, a bastard flower." Christine giggled. "Tough, hard to kill, a street rat like me. But it's still pretty, isn't it?" He leaned over to the rosebush and plucked a pink rose. He handed it to Christine. "And this one?"

"A rose, of course."

"Ah, right. Fragile, sweet, pure… and so beautiful." She looked up at Adrien's face, sure she could feel him watching her. But no, his gaze was aimed directly at the rose in her hands. "Do you think they could ever …"

"Ever what?"

"Ever fall in love."

"No, silly, they're…" She looked up again; Adrien's eyes met hers and she suddenly knew what he meant. "Flowers…"

_In case you were wondering, the flower was a dandelion. Dandelion is actually a corruption of the French phrase "dents de lion" but "pis-en-lit" is a nickname for the weed because it is a diuretic._


	5. 1888

1888

A sharp elbow jolted Christine from her nap. She looked up; the sun was now directly over the stained glass windows in the roof. The priest had been droning for at least an hour in rapid-fire Latin. She wiped her eyes and dared a glance behind her.

Behind the neat rows of pious black-robed nuns who absorbed the priest's words like a sponge, were the commoners who had no more idea what the priest was saying than if he were speaking Greek. Christine saw a teenage boy with light brown hair sitting in the back corner, who was watching the altar with a reverence the Pope would have envied. Christine knew better. Adrien looked up and gave her a wry smile; Christine felt herself blush and quickly turned back around.

After what seemed like years of Latin, the priest finally blessed the congregation and everyone rose to leave. Christine rushed to the back of the church and knelt in the back pew by the little well of holy water as surreptitiously as she could. Adrien approached, the picture of holiness, and genuflected, dipping his fingers in the water.

"Today?" he whispered, kneeling next to her, his eyes still fixed on the altar.

"_Oui_," Christine nodded. "Behind the grotto in the garden."

"_A __bientôt__._"

And then … as soon as he came, Adrien was gone.

"Christine?" Christine jumped in her seat. Sister Nadine was walking across the nearly-empty church toward her. Thank God. The well-meaning elderly nun was the daughter of a famous pianist and had taught Christine everything she knew about music, but she could be a little dense. "Christine, what are you doing?"

"Just … praying, Sister. I came back here for holy water and the view of the altar was just … astonishing. I felt like I had to offer a prayer to Our Lady."

It was the perfect thing to say; Sister Nadine smiled and touched her hand to her breast. "Ah, that's my good child. It is touching to see a young girl with such a high level of devotion. Surely, you will make an incredible nun some day." Christine forced a smile.

"Thank you, Sister Nadine."

"Now, my dear, I believe you have thanked _Notre Dame_ quite enough. Go have some fun before Sister Antoine calls you back to help make dinner." Christine smiled, genuinely this time.

"_Merci_, I will. Perhaps the library, Sister Clemence told me there was a new book."

Sister Nadine smiled and patted the girl on the head. "_Bonne idée._ I will tell Sister Antoine to free you from your kitchen duties today, perhaps? Now … go enjoy yourself, my child."

Christine smiled and scurried out of the church, feeling more than a little guilty about lying to Sister Nadine. The feeling disappeared, however, as soon as she ran into the garden and saw the familiar grotto. The grotto wasn't really a cave, but a modest curved wall a nun years before had created to honor the Blessed Virgin … and give her roses a trellis of sorts. Now, the grotto was practically abandoned except during Mary's month of May. In the cold Parisian January, the little statue of Mary was wreathed with snow and the remnants of fallen leaves. Christine had found it the past autumn, and learned that the grotto was completely hidden from the abbey. Now, Christine dusted the snow from the tiny statue and muttered a little prayer under her breath. "_Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grâce__._" Her lips chattered as she spoke and a small cloud of smoke formed in the air in front of her.

"You look a little cold," whispered a quiet voice behind her. Adrien's arms snaked around her waist. "Let me help." Christine turned around, giggling, as Adrien pulled her closer to him.

"I missed you," she said. "Where have you been?"

He shrugged. "Finding work, mostly. It's hard to live on the streets in the winter."

"Do you have enough to eat? Do you need food? Clothes?"

"Relax, Marie." Christine smiled; only Adrien ever called her Marie. She had tried to explain to him that all the nuns in the abbey added "Marie" to their names when they joined the Church out of respect for St. Mary, the mother of God and patroness of the church, but he had told her flat-out that she didn't "look like a Christine." She didn't mind anymore; she rather liked the name. "Besides, I'm not here for your charity. I could ask your wonderful Mother Superior for bread and soup if I wanted it. I'm here for you."

"That's very sweet, but I brought you some bread anyhow." She pulled a crust of bread from her pocket and handed it to him. "Don't refuse, I know you're hungry." Adrien gulped down the bread in a few bites.

"Well … maybe a little. Got anything else in there?" He reached into the pocket of her skirt. "Ow! Jesus, a mending needle?" She nodded, laughing as he grimaced. "Oh, and what's this?" From her pocket, he pulled a delicate gold chain. Christine gasped. He held it up in front of her face. It was remarkably like the gold crucifix she'd been given at her First Holy Communion, but instead of the image of Jesus on the cross, there was a delicate locket in the shape of a heart.

"Ohh … Adrien. This is gorgeous! How did you possibly … " Adrien looked up at her expectantly. "You didn't steal it, did you?" He looked offended.

"Why would you think that?"

"Because you steal everything," Christine said bluntly.

Adrien shrugged. "_C'est vrai._ But I didn't steal it, I promise. I would never give you another stolen." Christine smiled. "It would probably burn your skin; you practically bathe in Holy Water." The smile faded to a scowl. "Woah. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend, Sister Marie."

"That was a bit low."

"I admit. I feel a little bad about it."

"You should."

"I do."

"Good."

"…Why are we talking?"

"To keep warm."

"I can think of other ways." Christine wasn't sure, but she doubted the Blessed Virgin had ever spent such an interesting Sunday afternoon.

_This was totally my inspiration for the necklace (in case anyone was wondering): __/6757N.gif__._


	6. 1889

"Christine

1889

"Christine!"

The young woman whirled around, a half-filled suitcase in her hands. Her eyes were puffy and her cheeks were streaked with tears. "I'm leaving," she said defiantly. "You can't keep me here any more, Sister. I'm sick of being told what to do and how to feel and I'm sick of praying all the time and thanking God for everything, even if I'm not thankful."

"Christine, that's not –"

"You can't convince me not to go, Sister." She was throwing her few clothes and books into the bag. "I don't care what happens to me; I just can't stay here any longer. I want to live my life before I wake up and it's over!"

"Christine … I'm not going to make you stay."

"Oh." She stopped packing. "Then why are you here?"

"I have something for you." Sister Clemence pulled a small box out of her habit. "This is yours." Christine took the box hesitantly. She had never seen it before. Perhaps Sister Clemence's brain was slipping in her age. "It was with you when they found you in the church. I think it was your mother's."

"My mother?" Christine looked up in surprise. No one had ever talked to her about her mother. Not that she hadn't asked; she'd questioned everyone in the abbey since the day Sister Pauline had accidentally mentioned that Christine had never had a mother, as far as she knew.

Sister Clemence nodded. "There was a picture inside. And I found a slip of paper with you." Christine opened the box.

"Satine?" The nun nodded. "What is that?"

"I think it was meant to be your name. Whoever brought you to us tore it out and placed it on you. The Mother Superior didn't believe it was an appropriate name for a young girl." Christine snorted. The Mother Superior didn't believe anything was appropriate. "She was the one that christened you Marie-Christine."

"And the picture? Is it my mother?" Her anger had faded to curiosity.

Sister Clemence shrugged. "I believe so … she looks like you." Christine examined the black-and-white picture. The young woman had her wavy hair – could it be the same godforsaken red? – and the same delicate features.

"But Sister, why are you showing me this?"

"I knew that one day, you would have to know. And if you really are leaving … I guess this is my last chance." She smiled. "Oh … and you were wrapped in this. Paris is cold at night." She handed her a black cloak. "I don't know where it came from, but I guess it's yours now." Christine took the cloak, but was once again examining the box.

"Sister, what is this?" She motioned to the carving on the front of the box. "_The Moulin Rouge_? Some kind of farm?" Sister Clemence shook her head.

"It is a … a club. Not a place for people of any good reputation. I can't expect you to understand, Christine. You're too naïve to think badly of anyone and this place is hardly for the innocent. You must promise me you won't go there, not to look for your mother, not for anything."

"Of course, Sister."

"So … you are going?"

Christine nodded. "I have to. You've been wonderful to me, but it's time for me to be my own person and live my own life. Maybe I'll come back some day." She placed the box inside her suitcase and buttoned the cloak. "Thank you, Sister." She hugged the nun and, taking one last look at the room she'd lived in for the past sixteen years, left the abbey forever.

She didn't falter or look back. Instead, as she walked, she mulled over the new information she had received about her past. "Satine…" she murmured to herself.


	7. 1890

1890

The sun had just set over Paris and the nightlife in Montmartre was just beginning to come out. On the steps of an abandoned building, a young woman in a dark cloak sat and watched the passersby. She had been there for hours; if you asked the right people, they might tell you that she'd actually been sitting there for almost all of the past two days. She hadn't spoken to anyone and no one had spoken to her until … a large woman with black curls stomped up to the building. "Hey, you, watcha doing just sitting around?" she demanded in a thick, uneducated voice. "You don't get paid for watching people, do you?"

The girl looked up at her. "May I help you?" she asked quietly.

"Oh." The woman sniffed. "You ain't one o' my girls, are you?" The girl shook her head and the woman began to walk away, but thought better of it. She was always looking for more girls and this girl definitely looked pretty. Her accent wouldn't hurt business; most of the girls' voices gave them away as nothing more than the guttersnipes that they were, but this girl had a refined quality to her. "I'm Madame Antoinette," the woman announced with an air that clearly that she was neither a Madame nor named Antoinette. Still, the girl looked up at her. "Call me Madame. You .. uh, you got a job?"

"That's not your business," the girl retorted.

"Why, ain't we got some manners to us?" the woman laughed. "Careful, child, someone will cut out that tongue o' yours." The girl looked revolted. "You ain't been on these streets long, 'ave you?"

"Again. That is not any of your business."

"I can tell, just listening to you. Think you're some kinda princess or some'at, don't ya?" The girl looked determined to ignore her. "Listen, sweetie, I don't know where you're from and I don't really care … but I sure know you ain't got a job and I'm offering you a damn good one, right now. If you take it, I can promise you clothes and meals. If you don't, _c'est la vie._"

The girl stood up slowly. "What if … what if I'm interested?"

"Well then we'd best go inside to talk, ain't we?" The girl frowned. "That's not a question … let's go." Madame ambled down the street, switching her skirts with a well-practiced turn. She led the girl to a tumbledown building at the corner of the street, walked up the stairs, and opened the door with a loud creak. They were standing in a small room furnished with settees and curtains that had, at one time, been glamorous. There were a few small gas lamps, but the light they emitted was muted by the filth covering them; the whole room gave off a sweet, sickly odor. The girl wrinkled her nose involuntarily.

There were three girls in the room and they rose as Madame entered. "_Bonjour, mes filles!_" she cried. "I've brought us a visitor. This is …" She turned, remembering suddenly that her visitor did not have a name. "What's your name, girl?"

She removed the hood of her cloak to reveal a pretty face with delicate features and a mass of red curls. "They call me Marie-Christine."

One of the girls in the corner giggled. Madame shot her a glare and she was quickly silent. Christine didn't miss the knowing glances exchanged between the three other girls. "That's a pretty name," the older woman said diplomatically. "Sounds … religious, like a nun or sommat."

"I'm not a nun."

"Well I figured as much, seeing as where you find yourself now. We ain't got the most holy reputation, 'have we girls?" Now all three of the girls let out shrill giggles; Madame joined them with a hearty laugh. "Well, Marie-Christine, let me introduce you to the girls. These ain't all of them, o' course. Girls, come say hello to our new friend."

The girls slowly approached Madame and Christine. They walked with the same twitching movement as Madame, slowly shaking their hips as if in response to some unheard rhythm. One of the girls was tall, nearly a full head above Christine. She was deplorably skinny – her green dress hung loosely on her frame and she lacked the curves of the other girls – and her dark hair was thin, Christine noted, but she had high cheekbones and pretty eyes. "This is Eleonore," Madame introduced. "She's a former dancer and very … flexible, aren't you, Eleonore?" The girl looked proud, but a little embarrassed; she bobbed a quick curtsy. Madame continued: "This is Veronique."

She gestured at a second girl who couldn't have been more than fourteen years old, despite her rouge low-cut gown. She had a round, youthful face and blonde curls that escaped their pins. "_Bonjour!_" Veronique quipped enthusiastically, her curls bouncing around her face. She had a country accent that betrayed her humble upbringing, but seemed sweet enough.

"And this is Chantal."

Christine looked up into the girl's piercing black eyes. Chantal was undeniably gorgeous – slender and brunette, with a good complexion – but she wore a conceited smirk that marred her face. "_Bonjour_," she said silkily. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Marie-Claude." Madame whispered the correction in her ear. "Oh, _je m'excuse_, Marie-Christine." She smiled, but the icy flint in her eyes showed Christine that her apparent slip of the tongue had been intentional.

"It's very nice to meet all of you," Christine murmured. She turned to Madame. "Now, what is it that you all do?"

The quiet giggles the girls had let out before were replaced by straight-out laughter. Only Veronique had the grace to look abashed when Madame shushed them. "What do they do?" Madame repeated, an incredulous look on her face. "Where did you grow up, my dear, a nunnery? These girls are prostitutes."


	8. 1890 2

1890

"How do you feel?"

"Like a prostitute."

"Well that's the idea, isn't it? Twirl around a bit, you'll feel better once you see how the skirt flows."

Christine and Veronique stood in front of the cracked mirror Madame had salvaged from an abandoned theater a few weeks before. Christine was wearing a new dress – new for her at least, it was a hand-me-down from own Madame's other girls who'd "outgrown the business." The dress was made of a soft, silky material – a new feel for the girl whose clothes had always been sewn from handspun wool. It was depressingly old-fashioned, but this went unnoticed by Christine, who it had to be admitted had little sense of what was in style and what wasn't. She spun as Veronique had advised, and gave a little sigh of excitement as the blue fabric twirled around her. "I feel like a bit of a princess!"

"Make up your mind, a princess or a prostitute?" Veronique demanded, her hand on her hip and a hint of a smile at her mouth.

"Perhaps both!"

Veronique laughed. "There are no princesses down here, Christine. But you're lucky Odette's old dress fit you; we don't have the money to get new ones now." She fingered her tattered skirts. "I've taken out the seams in my hem three times in the last year; Madame promised me a new gown next season, though."

Christine didn't say anything. They both knew the awkward truth: Veronique had no new dress because there was no reason for her to have them. She worked cheap corners and back alleys and hadn't brought in a high-paying customer in, as Chantal had whispered viciously, "months and months." Christine felt bad for her new friend but was grateful for her own good fortune. She had yet to take a corner of her own, but Madame Antoinette had let her tag along with Eleanore for a few evenings and the interest she'd piqued in passers-by had been so promising that Madame had declared Christine ready to take her own corner.

"Christine…"

"Yes?"

"Have you … done it before?" Veronique asked nervously. "You know, with a man?"

Christine stifled a giggle. "As opposed to doing it with a woman?" she asked mischievously.

"You know what I mean," Veronique continued, focusing very hard on a tear on the hem of her skirt. "I hope you have, so you at least know what you're doing. But don't feel relieved yet. I don't know what you're used to, but you're a prostitute now. It's not your feelings that matter; it's those of the customers. You do what he asks … anything. Madame won't let anyone harm you – we're a reputable enough business, as these things go – but they sometimes get carried away. If a man's paid for something, you have no power to stop him."

Christine nodded, her eyes wide. She knew it was silly, but she hadn't really thought about the business of prostitution. She knew what it was, of course; Adrien had told her long ago. _Merde. _Adrien. She'd avoided thinking of him as well, but as soon as him name popped into her head, images flashed before her eyes.

Adrien, waiting for her in the garden, his green eyes flashing with excitement.

Adrien tugging on her hand, swearing her that she would be back in the abbey walls before dinner; the pleading look in his eyes proved irresistible, even if his promises were false.

Adrien's fingers twirling a strand of her red hair, whispering things in her ear that made her giggle with embarrassment.

Adrien slipping away from view over the wall.

"Christine? Are you alright? Did you hear what I said?"

She looked up quickly. The hazy image of Adrien's face melted away to reveal a much sharper Veronique, looking slightly annoyed and a little worried. "_Je m'excuse, mon amie._ I was lost in thought."

"You never answered me," Veronique pressed. "You have done it, haven't you?"

Christine nodded slowly. "Yes. Once."


End file.
